


Fight Through It

by teacuphuman



Series: Fight Series [1]
Category: Inception (2010), MMA-Fandom
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Ari doesn't have time for this shit, Arthur is angry, Because happy ending and communication!, But don't let that scare you off please!, Conor McGregor needs to fuck off and leave me in peace, Drinking, Eames fucks it up, Fighting, He listenend to me and retired today, Infidelity, M/M, Relationship Negotiation, huh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 18:25:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18238598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacuphuman/pseuds/teacuphuman
Summary: Eames learns how to fight for someone besides himself.





	Fight Through It

**Author's Note:**

> I almost wrote another fic when Conor McGregor got arrested earlier this month, but I resisted. Alas, I couldn't pass up the opportunity when I saw he was going to be on Jimmy Fallon. This fic formed in my head in about ten minutes, so here it is. The Eames as Conor McGregor sequel no one asked for.
> 
> N.B. I'm of the opinion that McGregor is a trash fire of a person, make no mistake. He's rude, and arrogant, and very probably a racist. I make no excuses for his behaviour in real life. But this fic isn't real life, it's fic. And Eames as McGregor is not McGregor in real life in any way other than he makes poor tattoo decisions and fights for a living. Please keep that in mind if you decide to google the real McGregor's exploits.

Eames hasn’t seen Arthur since Miami, ten days ago. He’d come when Eames called him from lock-up, giving him one long, tired look before bailing Eames out and walking away. It’s been brittle between them, stilted and sharp, since the fight with Khabib in October. The one where Eames hadn’t kept his mouth shut like he promised and ended up with a fifty thousand dollar fine and a six-month suspension.

 

Arthur hadn’t been quiet after that one. He’d shouted and screamed, going toe to toe with Eames for over three hours, and he’d been glorious. The energy in his eyes and the ruddy flush of his skin lighting a fire in Eames’ belly. The strain in his voice cutting into Eames’ nerves until they were wrestling on the floor, shamelessly groping each other through their clothes until Eames was left panting into Arthur’s mouth, spunk soaking through his trousers. Arthur had fucked him then, shoving his cock so far down Eames’ throat that he had no choice but to shut up and take it.

 

But Arthur hasn’t relaxed since then, the taut line of his shoulders holding onto every slight and crass word that slips from Eames’ mouth. Every time Eames flirts with disaster Arthur takes a step back where he used to rush forward. Not shielding Eames from the repercussions, but standing beside him, backing him up. Which, technically is his job as Eames’ promoter, so he’s not sure what Arthur’s so bent out of shape about. It’s not like Eames doesn’t pay him well.

 

When the knock comes, Eames knows it’s Ari because she’s the only one of them with halfway decent manners and she refuses to walk in on Arthur and Eames going at it again. Apparently once was too many times for her delicate constitution. 

 

Eames doesn’t answer because he’s pissed off and feeling maudlin about the Arthur-shaped hole in his day. Ari knocks a second time, then uses her keycard to open the door. She huffs in annoyance and appears over Eames, who is laying on the couch in a robe stamped with the hotel’s logo.

 

“What are you doing?” she demands, hands on her hips. She shouldn’t be terrifying, Eames thinks, with her petite frame and her button nose, but she is. Long before Arthur honed her into the dangerous pixie woman standing before him, Ari was quick and brash, and Eames got goosebumps when she raised her voice. Her ire is quieter these days, but no less effective. 

 

“I’m resting,” Eames slurs.

 

“Jesus, how drunk are you?” Ari looks around the room where empty whiskey bottles are laying careless and empty on almost every surface.

 

“They sent me a case,” Eames defends. “Quality control.”

 

Ari pinches the bridge of her nose and takes a deep breath. She clears a spot on the coffee table, the bottles screeching against the glass top and making Eames wince, and sits with her elbows on her knees. Her hair is loose, falling over her arms and Eames snags a lock of it, twisting it around his fingers like he used to when it was just the two of them in a cut-rate gym, working their way through the amateur ranks of the UFC.

 

Ari swats his hand away and tucks the hair behind her ear. “You’re supposed to give those out. Promote the brand, not drink yourself stupid because you had a fight with your boyfriend.”

 

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Eames sneers, the same lump forming in his throat that appears when Arthur says it.

 

“Oh my god, I don’t even know which one of you to slap anymore,” Ari groans, dropping her head into her hands. “Look, you two don’t want me meddling in your whatever-it-is, so I’ll stick to my actual job and tell you—as your manager—that if you don’t dry out and smarten up, you’re going to do real damage to your brand and your career. That means money, Eames. Sponsorship deals are going to disappear, investors are going to pull out. No one wants to watch a drunk fight and they sure as hell aren’t going to buy his whiskey.”

 

Eames waves her off, nearly slipping off the couch in the process. “S’not tha bad.”

 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Ari asks, staring at him like he’s insane. “Oh my god, do you even remember last night?”

 

Eames frowns, trying to call forth his last memory, but his brain is pickled at the moment and his memory is fuzzy. Ari pulls her phone out, tapping the screen a few times before shoving it in his face. He blinks at it, the jumpy video grainy and loud for a minute before it stabilizes and whoever is shooting it starts speaking.

 

_ “Holy shit, are you seeing this? That’s Eames _ . The  _ Eames.” _

 

A cold ball of dread forms in his stomach as the video zooms in on him in some club, obviously wasted with a lap full of young and pretty, the lad not even trying to hide that his hand is down the front of Eames’ trousers. The man could be Arthur if Arthur were ten years younger and dressed in nothing by a pair of green underwear and kitten ears.

 

Eames sits up, the room spinning as his brain fights to find an ounce of sobriety. “Has Arthur seen this?”

 

Ari looks away, her lips pursed.

 

“Shit. Is it out there? Can we stop it?”

 

“You’re very lucky Arthur is a fucking professional, you know that? Because had someone pulled this on me, I wouldn’t do a thing to stop it from getting out.” Ari spits, shoving a finger into Eames’ chest. 

 

“But it’s not out?” Eames asks again, pitching to the side when Ari slaps him. 

 

“Listen to me, you bastard,” Ari growls, her finger back at his chest, the pain of the sharp nail cutting through the fog of booze. “I love you, but I have never hated you as much as I do right now. You dragged Arthur into your world, let him get his hands dirty dealing with your bullshit, let him care about you and give up everything else in his life to back you up. And this is how you repay him. This is how you act the minute things go wrong.”

 

“Look, I don’t—” Eames starts.

 

“I’m not fucking finished!” Ari shouts, smacking his chest with the palm of her hand. “So shut up and listen for once in your goddamn life, because I’m only going to lay it out like this once. You’re fucking Arthur up. You’re ruining the best thing that’s ever happened to you, and you’ll never forgive yourself if you let him walk away. You wanna throw away your career and drink yourself to death, have at it, I won’t stop you. But I’ll be damned if you take Arthur down with you.”

 

“No worry for yourself, then?” Eames snaps, hating the tears he knows are in his eyes. He always gets emotional when he’s on a bender.

 

“It’ll take more than your sorry ass to bring me down. I’ve changed the face of this industry, you think I don’t have options? You’re lying to yourself if you think you’re the only iron I have in the fire.”

 

“I’m sure the same is true for Arthur, then,” Eames mutters.

 

“No, asshole, it’s not. He was getting out, remember? He was going to collect his paycheque and walk away after the fight with Yusuf. But you made him promises and changed his mind. He’s not here for the money, Eames, he’s here for  _ you _ . You’re the reason he does anything. And the only thing worse than watching him watch that video was seeing his face when he paid the guy off for it.”

 

“Fuck,” Eames chokes out, throat raw and tears dropping into his lap.

 

“I’ve never seen anyone look like that, Eames.”

 

Eames sniffs loudly, swallowing the muck that drains down the back of his throat. Ari wrinkles her nose and stands. 

 

“He’s booked you Fallon Monday night to try and distract from this shitstorm. Be sober and charming, and remind people why they should root for you. And unless you can pull yourself together, I won’t let you fight in July.”

Eames’ glares at her. “I thought that was a done deal already.”

 

Ari buttons her jacket and looks down on him. “Nothing is final unless I say it is. And I won’t back a fighter I don’t think can win.”

 

“This your brand of tough love, is it?”

 

“No, Eames,” she shakes her head and gives him a look that tells him how unimpressed she is. “This is it. Time to decide what’s more important: you or your life.”

 

“Those are s'pose to be the same thing!” he shouts after her as she walks away. She gives him the finger over her shoulder and lets the door slam on the way out, making him wince.

 

“Bloody bit,” he spits, trying and failing to come up with worse things to say about her. Eames falls back, letting the cushions catch him. He wants to wallow for a bit more, but being awake turns his stomach and he has to rush to the bathroom and vomit up the unidentifiable contents of his stomach.

 

It’s then, while he’s laying on the black and white tile of a five-star hotel in South Beach, sweaty and rank with vomit in his beard that he understands. There’s Eames™, with his career, and his brand, and his reputation. And there’s Eames, the man, the fighter, the dreamer. And neither of those Eames’ are worth shit if he doesn’t deserve Arthur.

**Author's Note:**

> McGregor is on Fallon tonight and this fic will only be 2-3 chapters long, the next one to be posted after taping of the show.


End file.
